


"Reluctant"

by Guardian_Rose



Series: A String Of Moments Makes A Life [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 'Cause They Be Like That, As per normal, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Sickfic, They So Soft, Unless you don't want it to be, prompted fic, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 09:03:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19128853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guardian_Rose/pseuds/Guardian_Rose
Summary: “Crowley? What are you doing here, my dear boy?” Aziraphale spares a glance for his poor mug that’s just sloshed a bit of hot water onto the floor. Only one glance though because Crowley’s eyes are suddenly rather close to his and there’s a hand on his forehead.“Angel, you called me. About ten minutes ago, you said something about feeling cold and said I shouldn’t come over for lunch today,” Crowley takes his hand away, brow furrowing a little, “so, naturally, here I am. Are you ill?”Aziraphale huffs an approximation of a laugh. “Angels can’t get ill, Crowley. We’re not humans. We’re...we’re um…”“Ethereal beings?”





	"Reluctant"

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the tumblr anon who prompted this! I loved writing it and hope you enjoy it too.

**"Just a quick request of mundane Ineffable Husbands fics.... sick day for Aziraphale with Crowley as a "reluctant" caretaker??"**

 

Aziraphale decides that the little patch of floor that is the kitchenette is in fact a perfectly swell place to enjoy a cup of cocoa at about the same time the spinning starts up again. It isn’t his vision that’s spinning. More...more like his sense of balance is whirling out of his control or even understanding really. It’s like there’s a rushing wind in his head but that wind is also just himself. Everything feels very off and wrong and he can’t get it to stop. So, he sits down, settles his back against the cupboards and keeps his eyes on the cup of cocoa in his hands, burning his fingers a little. The sensation is grounding. A bit. His head shoots up, cracking a little against the cupboard (because when had that been so close?) behind him, as the bell above the door in the front jingles. It shouldn’t be doing that, a part of him points out. The more dominant part of him doesn’t question it except to yell rather tetchily that they’re closed and if you’d be so kind as to flip the sign on your way out that would do nicely. Instead of a shout back, Crowley pops round the corner, sunglasses being stowed in a jacket pocket and a bag in his other hand. It’s a plastic one. Aziraphale remembers, somewhat fuzzily, getting Crowley some of those ‘Bags for Life’ because, you know, the environment. He hasn’t seen them in use even once. Crowley’s crouched in front of him now, snapping his fingers in front of his face.

 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley says, rather snappily which doesn’t seem fair, Aziraphale didn’t ask him to be here. 

 

“Crowley? What are you doing here, my dear boy?” Aziraphale spares a glance for his poor mug that’s just sloshed a bit of hot water onto the floor. Only one glance though because Crowley’s eyes are suddenly rather close to his and there’s a hand on his forehead. 

 

“Angel, you called me. About ten minutes ago, you said something about feeling cold and said I shouldn’t come over for lunch today,” Crowley takes his hand away, brow furrowing a little, “so, naturally, here I am. Are you  _ ill _ ?”

 

Aziraphale huffs an approximation of a laugh. “Angels can’t get  _ ill _ , Crowley. We’re not humans. We’re...we’re um…”

 

“Ethereal beings?” Crowley suggests, quirking an incredulous brow. 

 

“That’s the one!”

 

“Why are you on the floor, anyway?” Crowley grumbles, standing again and starting to open and close cupboards until his bag is empty. 

 

Aziraphale considers the question as he watches Crowley do this. He eventually comes to a conclusion.

 

“Things spin less down here. More gravity and all that.”

 

Crowley mutters something under his breath then clears away Aziraphale’s abandoned cocoa.

 

“Back to bed, angel. You need to sleep this off.”

 

“Oh but I’m not sick! I’m not!”

 

Crowley looks down at him, one hand on his hip, clearly disapproving. Aziraphale refuses to back down from his position on the floor.

 

“It is midday and you are still in what I can only call the most hideous pyjamas I have ever had the unfortunate luck to lay eyes on.” To his mild surprise, Crowley is right, he  _ is _ still in pyjamas, how frustrating. “You are sitting on the  _ floor _ and you don’t remember calling me.”

 

“I called you? Ah. I do hope I didn’t say anything embarrassing.” 

 

“You told me not to come over and when I asked why not,” Crowley says, with no small amount of relief when Aziraphale doesn’t question his offered hands to pull him to his unsteady feet, “you told me that you were ‘going to sit down now’ and hung up.”

 

Crowley brushes off Airaphale’s shoulders for no reason other than to grin, biting back a laugh, at the utterly adorable baffled look that the angel pins him with. He stops when Aziraphale actually tilts backwards into the counter and grabs onto the lapels of Crowley’s jacket as if he’s falling back off a cliff and not just back two centimetres into a sturdy counter top. Once balance is regained and they’re slowly making their way to the couch (because Crowley has decided the bed upstairs was far too ambitious) Aziraphale pipes up again. 

 

“Wait!”

 

“Yes?” Crowley sighs.

 

“If I said  _ not _ to come, why are you  _ here _ ?” Aziraphale asks, then promptly coughs.

 

Crowley lets him go so the angel half falls, half sits on the sofa. 

 

“I’ve been asking myself that same thing,” Crowley grumbles but lets Aziraphale drag him down next to him so that the angel can use him as a pillow, burying his face in the curve of Crowley’s neck. 

 

“You didn’t have to come.”

 

“No,” Crowley sighs, defeated in the knowledge that the angel in his arms is likely to drop off as soon as his head stops spinning again, “No, I didn’t have to.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3
> 
> No beta, all mistakes my own
> 
> Prompts welcome here and on my writing tumblr [WordToTheRose (Previously TheWordForest)](https://wordtotherose.tumblr.com/) or come say hi on my main [Guardian-Rose-Petal](https://guardian-rose-petal.tumblr.com/)
> 
> \- Rose

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19239061) by [may_green](https://archiveofourown.org/users/may_green/pseuds/may_green)




End file.
